


i couldn't utter my love when it counted

by salazarsslytherin



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Brian Comes To Munich, Drinking, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Instead of Mary, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, that depressing part in the movie when freddie's in munich and everything is awful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarsslytherin/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: He'd take it back if he could.





	1. Chapter 1

" _I can't do this anymore."_

Brian's thought about it so many times since then, if memories were tapes this one would be faded and worn, like to break at even the most delicate touch. It's as sharp and clear as it always was, though.

It's haunting him.

Freddie's _face_ when he'd finally said it. It had just crumpled with hurt, a split-second of stark agony that had cut Brian clean to the core before Freddie'd managed a nasty smile beneath his shining eyes.

" _All the secrecy finally taking its toll, dear?" His voice had been shaking but the words were no less cutting for it._

" _Fuck off, Freddie, you know that's not what I—"_

" _Oh, Brian," Freddie had cut him off, so careless and patronising, building up steam. "You don't have to explain yourself to me, darling, I really couldn't care less. It was nice while it lasted, I suppose, but there's plenty of other sex to be had."_

" _Don't you_ dare _pretend it's like that, Freddie, don't you_ fucking dare _."_

It's been months but Brian can almost ( _almost_ ) feel the same flare of white-hot anger as if it had been only moments ago, anger he'd closed a fist around and clutched tight to his chest because it was the only thing that might stop his heart from breaking. Only now it feels more like the familiar ache of missing Freddie, of loving him, and doesn't taste of anger at all.

" _Like what? Sex? It is." Casual and flippant and Freddie had given an expert pause for dramatic effect and then a laugh, a quiet, dismissive little puff of air that shattered Brian's careful anger into a thousand pieces of hurt, exactly as it had been intended to. "Oh, darling," he'd said, so softly, dripping with pity, "You didn't think I really_ loved _you, did you?"_

The thing about Freddie is that he's good at doing that, he's the sweetest, gentlest thing but he can be a vicious little fucker and he always, _always_ knows exactly what to say to hurt someone the most. Brian _knows_ that but it still devastated him to hear it, to have Freddie look him in the eyes and lie to him like it's nothing, like he'd never cared at all, not once, and Brian really was just one in a long line of many.

It's exactly why Brian couldn't do it anymore, they hurt each other too much. It _isn't_ love.

But Brian can't stop thinking about it. About him. If he's okay, if he's happy. If he's ever coming home. If he'll ever even look at Brian again. And _that_...Brian can't think about it, has to snatch his thoughts back quick or he loses days at a time grieving a man who's not dead, just dead to him. Grieving a love he himself put out, cupped his own hand over the flickering candle while it burned his palm and slowly spluttered out. And now all that's left is darkness.

Chrissy doesn't understand what's wrong with him and he can't explain. Won't explain. This is something in a language only he and Freddie know.

In the weeks after, Brian had began to forget why he did it. He knows it by rote; it was unhealthy, they didn't trust each other, it was too _complicated_ , it hurt so fucking much. But it's meaningless, because this hurts more.

He'd take it back if he could. He'd take it back in a heartbeat, kiss Freddie instead, pull him close and tell him he loves him, he _loves him_ , but Freddie's breaking his heart and it's killing him. But would Freddie have even listened? How far is too far, how much is too much? Brian doesn't know if they ever could have come back from where they were. But he knows they should have _tried_.

But the thing is, if Freddie cared at all about losing Brian, he didn't show it. So what's even left to try and save? He'd jetted off to Munich the first chance he got and he's been splashed all over the press ever since with a new bloke every night and headlines that make Brian sick with worry.

He shouldn't read them but he can't help it, some sick part of him has to continue torturing himself this way. At least he knows Freddie's alive out there, even if it is with someone else. A lot of someone elses, actually, and Brian's stomach clenches and rolls at every new photo showing Freddie hanging off of someone different. It certainly hadn't taken him long to move on, hadn't interrupted his partying for so much as a night. In some of the pictures he can barely stand, he's so fucked.

If Brian were there he'd put an arm around his waist, coax him to the door even though Freddie never wants to leave when he's like that, keep him close and safe and warm until they're outside and Freddie realises how tired he is. Get them in a car and take him _home_ and wrap him up and keep him there, cling to him as he fell asleep and then stay awake for hours after, somehow aware that every second was precious.

Is there anyone holding him while he falls asleep, whispering secret, shameful _I-love-you's_ into the back of his neck when he knows they'll never be heard? Is anyone even making sure he gets home safe?

Brian wants to vomit, he wants to cry, he wants to rage. He wants to scream at Freddie for being so thoughtless and _stupid_ and he wants to smother him in kisses and bury himself deep inside him, promise him he'll never leave again.

He tosses the newspaper in the bin and pours himself a drink. He doesn't know what time it is, but it's five o'clock somewhere.

Freddie would be proud.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The party doesn't stop. It never stops when you're Freddie fucking Mercury, on top of the whole fucking world, shining solo artist in his own right and a fucking _multi-millionaire_. Come one, come all—we're open all night and _every single fucking day_ , it's a laugh a minute and it _never fucking stops_.

Freddie's never going to stop; to stop would be to _think_ , to feel, to _remember_ —if he stops he'll _die_. He's fucking immortal he's never going to die, he'll eat the entire world and shit it out for breakfast, nothing can fucking _touch him_ here. Oh, there are hands and mouths and cocks, of course, but nothing _touches_ him, nothing gets through, he's _untouchable_ and he's invincible and—

His legs don't _fucking_ work.

It's his old age, must be—knees giving out on him in a corridor, sending him careening into a wall. It's dark, the wall's vibrating a bit, and sticky (Freddie wipes his hands off on his jeans and his jeans are sticky, too, everything _sticks_ and he doesn't like it, not one bit) and he doesn't think this is his house, actually. It's too dark, the walls are black, or at least there are so few lights and the paints are so dark it may as well be black, and Freddie would never have that in his own house, not even if he was just renting it for a while.

He'd wallpaper it, maybe, something floral and light, and he'd knock half these walls down and have windows instead so the sun could come through. Well, he'd get someone else to knock the walls down, anyway, and fit some windows. Lovely sash windows. The cats love lying in sunbeams, and Freddie thinks he'd like that, too, for a little while—to curl up and _sleep_ somewhere light and warm and _quiet_ , _God_ it's so fucking loud in here.

Which brings him to: where the fuck _is he_.

On the floor, now, knees having let him down again, and Freddie watches his fingers press uselessly into the wall beside him. He can't quite remember how to stand, which is a joke, really, because he's been standing since he was a fucking year old and to forget that seems quite stupid of him, but there it is.

His legs don't work and his brain won't catch on thoughts properly, they slip away before Freddie can make them out and his mouth won't seem to move right, his words are messy, even he can't understand them, but at least the thoughts don't stick. Freddie can't stand his own thoughts any more.

Someone rescues him before long, there's always someone there before long, _can't get a fucking minute alone_. A loud, laughing voice and familiar accent, familiar hands under his arms dragging him upright. Wrong voice, wrong hands, wrong tongue ( _don't fucking think about that_ ) wet in his mouth but a hard little pill that Freddie swallows on reflex, the bitter taste chased with a vodka someone's just given him and everything dissolves all over again and it's not perfect but at least he's numb.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Brian's half out of bed before he even registers the ringing phone that must have woken him. A phone call at three in the morning is never good news so his heart's in his mouth as he skids into the hall and yanks the receiver up.

"Hello?" he asks quickly, voice only half-lowered out of respect to the rest of his sleeping household. "Hello?" He can't make out what's on the other end, it's staticky and there's a lot of background noise but he hears someone catch their breath.

"Brian?"

His voice comes from miles and miles away, tinny on the phone, but Brian's heart still seizes. It's been so many months since he heard it, Brian hadn't even realised he'd forgotten exactly how he said his name.

"Freddie?" he whispers. The shape of it feels strange in his mouth after all this time. His heart's hammering and his hands are cold. Chrissy's asleep upstairs, nothing moving—the phone didn't wake her, nor Brian's hasty run through the house. He leans against the wall because his legs are shaking. "Are you alright?"

Freddie gives a tiny, lost laugh that catches as a sob. "I didn't mean to call you," he says thickly. "I was—I was—"

He's fucked, Brian can already tell, but it's the bad kind, the spiralling kind, the kind that stopped being fun hours and hours ago.

"I don't remember," Freddie says and he's tearful with sudden panic. " _Brian_?"

"I'm here," Brian says quickly, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth a moment later because he wants to cry and he doesn't want Freddie to hear him. It's hard to breathe, everything's too tight and his throat's gone so small and painful he can't swallow and his mouth floods with saliva instead. He hopes he isn't about to be sick. "Are you okay?" he croaks out.

"I don't know." Freddie's voice is shaking madly. He sounds scared. "Can you come and get me?"

Brian closes his eyes. It could be any night in the last ten years, the last fifteen, even. Freddie drunk down the phone, using his last change to plead with Brian to fetch him from whatever party or club he's wound up at before he's decided he's had enough. Brian pulling on shoes and coat over his pyjamas and getting in the car, content to drive around the dark city hunting for Freddie on the most undesirable streets because he'd never be able to sleep, knowing he was out there alone.

Brian hasn't been able to sleep properly in months.

"I can't. You're in Munich, Fred," Brian tells him softly.

There's a quiet sigh and a long, long pause.

"I want to come home." The words are slow and slurred and nakedly honest, half-measured like someone falling asleep, and Brian's heart breaks again and again. It's waves, _waves_ of hurt, rushing in and out like the tide, washing through him and scraping him raw from blood to bone.

"You can," Brian finds himself saying, wondering if he sounds like he's pleading. Wondering if he is. "Come home, Freddie, come back—" _To me_.

Freddie's too drugged to realise the abrupt cut off.

"Brian…" Freddie says quietly, his breath crackling over the speaker like he has the headset pressed right against his mouth.

Brian doesn't say anything, just waits.

It's not Freddie who speaks next, though, but someone else on the other end; loud and boisterous even in the background, clear enough that Brian can make it out—'Fredd _ie!_ '. The coaxing call of it grates his every nerve. Brian knows exactly whose voice that is.

Freddie gasps, surprised to be summoned, but he doesn't respond to Prenter. His voice is low when he speaks again, rushed and barely-lucid. "Remember your birthday? The one just gone?"

"Of course I do." It's nearly a year ago, now. Freddie had tried to bake him a cake and nearly burned the apartment down, a rented thing in New York that had been all theirs for three weeks of bliss during the tour.

The cake had been ruined, of course, but Freddie had put candles in the charred mess of it and Brian had blown them out.

" _What did you wish for?"_

_This, Brian had thought. This, every day, for the rest of our lives._

" _See if you can guess," Brian had said instead, tugging Freddie in for a kiss and a little more._

They had been happy then, dizzyingly happy. It had been like having their own place, a real home where they could be a couple who woke up together and brushed teeth side by side, trading off on chores and shower times (or, more accurately, Freddie trading off various favours to get out of doing the washing up and sneaking into the bathroom to make Brian late whenever he got in the shower).

It had been there, in the bedroom of that apartment on an otherwise unremarkable day, that Freddie had told Brian he loved him.

Brian couldn't say it back, didn't dare admit it to either of them when he knew they could never have the life they wanted.

Freddie had never said it again.

"Remember me like that. Please."

The phone goes dead, then.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Brian dwells on it for several days. Freddie always says he overthinks things but Brian's learned over time that often the opposite is true. He doesn't think _enough_. If he'd ever thought enough about any of this, maybe he wouldn't have started this whole thing with Freddie, knowing how it might end.

If he'd _really_ thought enough he'd have wondered in time if getting married as young as he did was a good idea rather than realising far, far too late that he's not sure it was. So many people stand to get hurt no matter what Brian does now—he's already hurt Freddie, perhaps unforgivably. He's hurting his family, pulling away from them as his mind tears itself apart trying to decide what to do. He's hurting _himself_. It's going to hurt the band.

Where does it end?

Brian lies awake at night, carefully distant, and stares at the ceiling and _thinks_ and worries and eventually makes himself sick enough that he has to lock himself in the bathroom. Chrissy doesn't come to find him and Brian's glad.

He thinks about Freddie's voice, broken and _sad_ , and it's so, so easy to remember how much he loves him.

He thinks about that birthday, and he thinks about the days after. He thinks about his own hateful silence after that soft _I love you_ and Freddie's forced cheer the next morning.

He thinks about the quickest way to get from his house to Heathrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It's dark and raining when Brian's plane finally touches down and it doesn't let up. He's soaked to the bone as he slides into the driver's seat of a rented car and turns the heaters up on full, feeling tense and adrenalised as he looks over a roadmap.

Everything feels suddenly very real, in a way it hadn't during the quiet but awful argument with Chrissy, the wait at the airport, or the flight itself. It's almost like the past seven hours have passed in a dream or a daze, except Brian doesn't think he's ever walked into anything with his eyes more firmly open.

He has no idea what to expect when he finds Freddie, doesn't know what he's going to do or say or even how he's going to feel, but at least he's _decided_. He's finally here, finally doing _something_ , and he feels more alive than he has since Freddie left.

This was all Freddie had ever wanted. All this time, all those years, he'd just wanted Brian to _choose_ , one way or another.

" _You don't understand, Fred," Brian always used to tell him. "It's my_ marriage _, it's not as easy as all that."_

" _Oh I understand perfectly, darling." Bitter, furious. Hurt. "Good enough while we're on tour. Good enough when you don't have anything else. I'm getting tired of waiting around for you while you try and play Happy Families, dear. I won't wait forever."_

" _Well,_ GO _then!" Brian had shouted at him. "Fucking_ go _if you're going to_."

But Freddie hadn't gone, not that time. Nor the time after. Freddie, for all his threats, hadn't left at all until Brian turned his back on him. Freddie had always waited for him, every time. Waited during the weeks he went back to Chrissy, when Brian had his second and then his third child, when they would all come to visit him while they were touring and Freddie would mysteriously disappear for the weekend.

He waited, every damn time, and kissed Brian just the same when he came back, even though he tasted like someone else.

He'd wait in Brian's hotel bed, wrapped in a blanket and peering over the top as Brian rolled over to answer a call from the lobby—his wife, being patched through.

He'd listen in silence as Brian said his niceties and asked after the kids and said he was exhausted from the gig and about to go to bed. He'd listen, staring blankly at the ceiling, while Brian told her, " _Love you, baby_ " before he hung up. While he thoughtlessly gave her the one thing, the only thing, Freddie had ever wanted. The thing one Freddie had always been denied.

And he'd kiss him just the same then, as well, when Brian put the phone down and rolled back on top of him. Freddie's legs would fall open, warm and inviting, as he tried to prove to both of them that he was worth it.

It was Brian who couldn't handle it, in the end. When Freddie had started sleeping around, too.

God, the arguments they'd had over that.

He's here now, finally. After all these years he's chosen—it's _Freddie_ , it's always been Freddie—and maybe it's too late but at least he's decided.

(Fuck, he hope it's not too late.)

Something about the journey feels anticlimactic, like Brian's there before he's ready—it's not far, and the traffic's nearly non-existent. He'd thought he'd have more time. Time to plan and to think, to find some words to say to begin fixing this but he's been thinking about what words those are for months and months now and they've never come to him.

Brian pulls up outside expecting to find the place alive with a crazy party but it's quiet. Just the rain and the dark and his body, full of regrets.

He gets out of the car and jogs over to the front door, shoulders hunched up around his ears, head bent against the rain. He's blinking water out of his eyes when he knocks, straining to hear anything from inside but it's hopeless. The house is dead and dark.

He knocks again, louder this time, and then again but there's still nothing.

Of everything he's imagined, he hadn't thought about this. That maybe he _wouldn't_ find Freddie. But Brian didn't come all this way for nothing and he's not leaving unless it's with Fred in tow; he's been gone for far too long and Brian's had to watch him drown from a world away. He's done being helpless, he's through with letting Freddie make his own mistakes.

He's taking him _home_. He'll drag him back if he has to. But he is not leaving here without him if he has to sit on this damn porch all night waiting for him to get back from wherever he's off getting fucked, if he has to rip Prenter away from him by the _hair_.

Not about to be deterred while he's fuelled by righteous purpose, Brian walks along the side of the house until he rounds the corner, where he can see pale light reflected out onto the wet grass and looks in the huge window and—

There he is.

Seeing him is a physical thing, almost a blow. Because it's Freddie, without question, but he's limp on the sofa, sprawled there like a discarded toy, face lax and lifeless with sleep— _please fucking God let him just be sleeping_ —

Brian's pounding on the slick glass before he can stop himself, nearly hysterical with panic, with clawing fear.

Then Freddie moves and Brian breathes again.

He sees Brian immediately and lurches unsteadily to his feet, staring, bewildered, at the man (the _ghost_ ) outside his window.

Brian knocks again, gently this time, before dropping his hand and waiting. And hoping.

And Freddie comes to the door.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Brian?" Like he can't believe it.

" _Freddie_." Brian chokes his name out, overcome, and there's no room left in him for anger or hurt, it's turned to dust in the face of Freddie, here and alive and so very precious, and Brian's arms go tight around him before he can think.

Freddie doesn't react, doesn't shy away or shove Brian off, doesn't lift his arms to return the hug. He just stands there and Brian holds him and struggles to hold back the deep swell of emotion he's been battling since Freddie left.

It's hard to let him go. Freddie's thin under Brian's hands, thinner than ever. His shoulders are bony and angular, his chin sharp on Brian's collarbone. He reeks of alcohol and something more sinister but he's whole and alive and that's all Brian has room for right now.

When he finally steps back Freddie just stares at him, his eyes hooded and careful. He looks tired, exhausted, paler than Brian's ever seen him. He looks barely half of himself, a shade of who he used to be even on his worst days though Brian feels guilty for even thinking it.

"Freddie," Brian says again and it's only a whisper now. His feet propel him forward and Freddie steps back as Brian walks inside and closes the door on the rain and the rest of the world.

"What are you doing here, Brian?" The words are slow and cautious, quiet, but his voice is still rough over them, nearly hoarse. How he's recording anything like that, Brian doesn't know.

"I've come to bring you _home_."

Freddie flinches almost imperceptibly at that and turns away, doesn't reply as he goes for the bottle of vodka still out on the table.

Brian goes still when his gaze follows him and he actually takes the house in. It's...worse than he was expecting, if he's honest. It's completely trashed. There are bottles and glasses everywhere he looks, mirrors and razorblades and cocaine littered on everything else. A vase of flowers stands upturned on the counter, petals scattered across the floor, and Freddie's trainers crunch on a broken glass he doesn't seem to notice as he swigs Stoli straight from the bottle.

Brian starts and makes an aborted move toward him, as if he could stop him as easily as that.

Freddie notices and holds Brian's gaze as he swigs again, swills his mouth and winces before he swallows.

It's wrong to see him like that, like a pissed up nobody. The Freddie Brian knows ( _thought_ he knew) drinks from crystal glasses and antique teacups. This Freddie doesn't care, there's some vital piece of him missing or stolen, rotted away by months and months of _this_.

"You came all this way to bring me _home_ ," Freddie says after a long, long moment. He holds the bottle by the neck, carelessly at his side, and there's an awful, sneering edge to his words that Brian hates.

"Yes," Brian says quietly. "You...you asked me to."

Freddie looks so astonished at that that Brian realises at once he doesn't remember and his stomach sinks.

"You called me," Brian plows on when Freddie doesn't reply. "On the phone. You said you wanted to come home. You sounded…" _Lost, hurt, broken._ "I thought you might be in trouble." Brian looks around as he says it to take in the house around them, the evidence of the trouble Freddie's found himself in, and Freddie looks around too.

"Trouble?" he repeats and Brian can just tell from his tone that he's gearing up for a fight. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, darling. I'm having the time of my life."

"Freddie—"

"Sorry to ruin your little white knight moment, Bri," Freddie speaks over him, fingers fumbling for an old, used glass nearby and filling it with three fingers of neat vodka, "but you'll have to find someone else to save. Now if you wouldn't mind kindly _fucking off_ , I've got...friends due round."

" _Friends_ ," Brian snarls, thoughts of Prenter bringing the anger back with a rushing noise in his ears. "They aren't your _friends_ , Freddie, fuck—what is the _matter_ with you? You're killing yourself out here!"

Freddie's gaze is blank and half drunk when he turns to him. "Only the parts worth killing."

Brian knows what that means. It means Queen. His old life, his old friends. The things that hurt to think about. It means _him_.

"Well I won't let you," he says furiously. "You've been gone too long, Fred, you're—you're out of control out here, it's this _place_ , it fucks with your head—"

Wrong thing to say. Freddie seems almost to grow a few inches as he inflates with anger. "Well that's _rich_ coming from the man who's done nothing _but_ fuck with my head for the past ten years!"

"No I haven't!" Brian shoots back, shocked at having something like that thrown in his face. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Oh, _please_ ," Freddie says. "You know exactly what I mean."

"No I _don't_." Brian stops to take a deep breath and try to calm himself down. He didn't come here to argue with Freddie, he came here to try and make things right. "All I know is you called me, in tears, and asked me to come and get you. So I'm here."

Freddie turns away from him and stalks across the living room until he finds a pack of Silk Cuts and sets the vodka down to light one up. "I hope you have your return ticket booked," he says after he's taken a long drag.

"I'm not leaving," Brian says, a steel edge in his voice. "Not without you."

"You are," Freddie tells him. "I don't want you here. I want you _gone_ , do you hear me? I don't even want to fucking _look_ at you, Brian."

"I'm not going anywhere," Brian says steadily, louder, "I'm not leaving. You _love_ me, Freddie, I know you do—"

"Don't," Freddie warns him, jaw tight. He drops his barely touched cigarette to the floor and stamps it out.

"You _do_ ," Brian insists and he takes a step closer. "And I l—"

He cuts himself off as the bottle is thrown and shatters against a wall off to Brian's left, glass tinkling to the ground while vodka spills over the paint and the floorboards.

" _Don't_ ," Freddie says again, choked now, and his hand finds the glass and he throws that, too. "It's no good _now_ , is it?"

Brian doesn't flinch at the smash, just clears the space between them in four easy strides to grab Freddie's wrists before he can grab something else. He holds him there, makes Freddie look at him. "I _love you_ ," Brian tells him forcefully, releasing his wrists to grab his shoulders instead and shake him roughly. "Do you hear me? I love you, Freddie, _I love you,_ I LOVE YOU!" He's shouting it, like it's an argument he needs to win, beside himself with finally admitting it, and his breath rushes out of him as Freddie shoves him hard in the chest.

"SHUT UP!" Freddie screams at him, and shoves him again.

Brian lets himself be pushed back a step. "It's true," he says fiercely. "I do. I did then and I do now. Don't you want to hear it?"

Another shove. Freddie's in tears, shaking his head.

It's not fair to do this to him now, while he's still high and drunk from last night and the night before, a breath away from a painful comedown, but Brian can't stop himself. "You always wanted to. Even when you stopped waiting for it. I'm sorry I never told you, I was a coward." His voice is starting to shake so he speaks louder to cover it, almost loud enough not to hear the painful catch in Freddie's breathing.

"I want—you—gone," Freddie manages to grit out, and his own voice is trembling badly, nowhere close to the volume of Brian's.

"I'm not." Brian is immovable. "I'm not going unless you come with me. I'm taking you away from here, away from _him_. We don't have to go home, we can go anywhere. Anywhere you want. Come _with_ me, Fred."

" _Fuck you_ ," Freddie manages to get out and he scrapes both hands down his face. " _Fuck_ you." His fucking voice keeps breaking, he can't trust it but the words come all the same. "You _left_ me, do you even remember that? I didn't _mind_ , Bri. I didn't mind being second best, I would have taken that over nothing, don't you see? You didn't give me the _choice_." He's rising in volume and pitch, struggling to get it out. "You just _left_ me so now you don't get to come in here and _lie_ to my fucking _face_ —" His voice gives out on him and Freddie can't breathe around the hitch in his chest, looks around for the nearest bottle but Brian surges forward and catches hold of him before he can move toward it.

" _Get off me_!" Freddie screeches at him, struggling wildly, but Brian holds on until the dam breaks, as he knows it will, and eventually Freddie collapses against him, shuddering as he tries to bite down on his sobs.

Brian lets his head fall, rests his cheek on Freddie's hair and squeezes his eyes shut on his own tears as the sound of Freddie's threatens to overwhelm him. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Freddie."

Freddie still doesn't put his arms around Brian but he stands there and lets himself be held, face pressed into Brian's rain-damp shirt while he tries to get himself under control. Brian runs one hand soothingly up and down his back and waits for him.

"You left me," Freddie says eventually, voice wobbling. "You _left me_ , Brian. After all those years of—" he cuts himself off abruptly, throat closing.

"I know," Brian says, and his teeth are starting to chatter around a barely-held sob. "I'm sorry, Freddie. I'm here now." He squeezes him as tightly as he dares, holds on for dear life in case this is the last time he gets to, and breathes again when Freddie doesn't push him away. "I'm so sorry," he says softly. "I love you."

Freddie tenses and Brian hates himself for it. He should have been telling him all this time, every night and every day, with every breath. Should have told him the truth right from the start and never let him doubt it. Should have done a lot of things differently. If he had, Freddie wouldn't flinch at it now, too scared to let himself believe it after so much heartache.

"I love you," Brian says again. He'll say it however often it takes for Freddie to believe it. "You were—" He has to swallow, hard, before the words will come out. "You were _never_ second best, Freddie. Never. I'm so, _so_ sorry, my love. I was so stupid. Can you ever forgive me?"

Brian knows he has no right to ask but he has to. He squeezes Freddie so tightly he's almost worried he'll break, precious and fragile inside Brian's arms, and gently kisses the top of his head.

Freddie's still trying to control his breathing, his chest catching on each breath, but the tears have stopped for now. "I already did," he says wretchedly, so quiet Brian can barely hear him. "I did years ago. When I watched you marry her." And again, and again, and again after that. Freddie knows he'd forgive Brian anything, anything in the world, to just keep him for a moment longer. "I always knew I'd have to share you."

Because they can never have _that_ life. The real life. The _normal_ life that Brian so craves; Freddie can't give that to him. The ring on her finger, the hand to hold at label parties and album launches, the parents evenings and PTA meetings—Freddie can never have that. He's been trying to make his peace with that for the better part of ten years. He's still trying.

"I shouldn't have done that to you," Brian tells him, and he can't believe it's taken him this long to realise. To understand how much Freddie's been hurting, to see that no matter what he said or did, the fact that he always left Freddie in the end, to go home, would always speak louder. As if anywhere but _Freddie_ has ever been his home. As if Brian's soul could ever be whole without him.

"I don't mind," Freddie says thickly. "Keep her if you want, just keep us _both_." Freddie's arms go around him then, his fists going tight in Brian's jacket as he clutches. "Keep me as well," he whispers, pleading. "I'm not me without you."

"You're all I want, Freddie," Brian tells him, and it's ten years too late but maybe it's still just in time. "If you'll still have me."

Freddie presses his face to Brian's chest. "That's all I ever wanted," he says, wobbly. "Brian—"

He's interrupted by the sudden opening of the front door and a great spill of noise from the people piling through it, revellers come to chip away at more little pieces of Freddie until there's nothing left of him.

Freddie jumps and pulls back from Brian, turning to stare at Paul and his entourage, all suddenly frozen on the threshold when they see Brian, their shouts and laughter dying into awkward mutters and thoughtless rain dripping onto the floorboards.

"Brian," Paul says, with a forced, fixed smile. "I didn't know you were coming."

Brian turns and deliberately keeps his shoulder in front of Freddie, resisting the sudden, irrational urge to push Freddie firmly behind him as though Paul's about to rush at him and steal him away. He's never hated anyone the way he hates this man, with his smirk and his simper and his greedy hands, always pulling Freddie into deeper, darker corners.

"We're just leaving," Brian says stiffly, and reaches behind him for Freddie's hand. "Come on, Freddie."

"Leaving?" Paul laughs, stepping closer.

Freddie pulls his hand out of Brian's grip and Brian's heart jumps with worry. Won't he come?

"Well you can't leave, Freddie," Paul carries on, boyishly amused, not sparing Brian a glance. "All these people are here to see you. They're your guests—come on, don't be rude. Aren't you going to say hi?"

"He's not saying _anything_ to them," Brian snaps. "Fuck off, you and all your little sycophants. I'm taking Freddie home."

"Are you, now?" Paul laughs, and arches an eyebrow. "Is that true, Freddie? Are you going home with him?"

Freddie's silent, wide-eyed, caught between the two of them. This is his very worst nightmare, exactly the sort of confrontation he employs people like Paul so he can _avoid_.

"Freddie," Brian says lowly. "Come on, let's get out of here. You don't need him."

"Do you think he needs _you_?" Paul sneers. " _You're_ the one who left him."

Brian can't help but flinch at that, to have Prenter, of all people, throw that in his face, but he knows he deserves the shot.

Sensing the chink in the armour, Paul steps forward, shaking his head. "You should've seen him, Brian," he says, and his voice is sad but there's something under it, a sly satisfaction in getting to say it. "I've never known him so bad. You were a mess, weren't you, Freddie?"

Freddie doesn't respond. Brian feels sick. Paul doesn't have to say much to paint a vivid picture in Brian's mind; he can do that all for himself. He can imagine it only too easily, knows only too well how quickly Freddie's defiant shot-taking, alcohol-driven mania would dissolve into tears, would become a stark mess on the bathroom floor, would become a desperate phone call in the middle of the night.

"And now he's finally getting back to a good place and you want to come in here and hurt him all over again?" Prenter shakes his head. "He doesn't need _you_ , Brian. He doesn't need to go through that all over again, next time you decide you're bored of him."

Brian doesn't want to give Prenter the satisfaction of responding but he can't help himself, stepping forward. "Fuck you," he says lowly. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know more than you think," Prenter says, unphased by the barely veiled fury in Brian's voice. "I can't tell you the number of nights I've sat with him while he cried over you, even before all this. You've never been good for him."

Brian's heart clenches at that, terrified that it might be the truth, and he swallows, hard. "And you are?" he fires back. "All this?" He gestures at the room around them. "You think you're taking good care of him?"

"I'm making him happy," Prenter says. "Cheering him up. So he needs a helping hand sometimes—don't we all?"

With effort, Brian turns away from him without replying, facing Freddie once again and reaching for his hand. "Freddie, come on. Let's go. You don't need to stay here."

Freddie doesn't pull his hand away this time but he looks so lost, eyes flicking between Brian and Paul.

"Freddie," Brian says softly, low enough that nobody else will hear. "I love you. _Please_ , come home. I'll make things right, I swear to you."

Freddie blinks and gives the tiniest nod and Brian feels almost dizzy with relief.

"You should go, Paul," Freddie says, finally, though he won't meet Paul's gaze when he says it. "Get...get rid of all these people."

Paul scoffs a laugh. "You're not serious? You're going to choose _him_? After everything? He _left_ you, remember? He doesn't _care_ about you, Freddie. Not the way I do."

"Shut up," Brian snaps, giving Freddie's hand what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. "He's coming home."

"He just wants you to sing for them, Freddie," Prenter carries on. "He knows Queen's nothing without you. Money's stopped rolling in, has it, Brian? Need your little cash cow back?"

It's Freddie who squeezes Brian's hand this time, when he goes to step forward again.

"It's nothing like that," Brian says acidly.

"Isn't it?" Prenter laughs. "I just think it's funny that Freddie doesn't hear a word from you, then this Live Aid gig comes up and suddenly you're back in the picture, wanting him home."

"He already said he didn't want to do the gig." That had been a kick in the teeth for all of them, though Brian had half been expecting it.

Freddie frowns. "What gig?"

Brian turns to look at him. "The Live Aid gig," he says. "Geldof's thing. Jim called about it."

"Jim hasn't called me," Freddie says slowly. "What is it?"

Pieces slowly begin to fall into place. "It's a concert," Brian tells him. "To raise money for the famine in Ethiopia. Everyone's doing it. We wanted Queen to take part but you said…" He turns to look at Prenter, who looks a touch nervous now. "We were _told_ you said you didn't want to."

Freddie turns to Paul now as well. "Why didn't you tell me? I'd have done that."

Prenter shifts his weight between his feet before he chuckles dismissively. "It's just a charity thing, it'd be a distraction. Of course I told you, Freddie," he says with a confidence that doesn't reach his eyes. "You just forgot—you're always forgetting things."

Freddie's shaking his head. "You should have told me," he says, realisation creeping through his voice. "They wanted me back."

"They don't _really_ want you, Freddie," Paul insists, coming closer again. "He's the one who left you," he says, jabbing a finger in Brian's direction. "I'm the one who picked up the fucking pieces."

Freddie shakes his head, harder now. "No," he says simply. "You're out."

Paul's face is the picture of shock. "I'm _out_?" he repeats. "Just like that? Because of one little message?"

"Because you _lied_ ," Freddie says furiously. "You lied to me. They _did_  want me back."

Paul gives a disbelieving little laugh. "You sure that's wise, Freddie?" he asks. "Just think of the photos I have…"

Freddie reels back in shock at the threat at the same time Brian lunges forward, finally had enough. He's not a violent man by nature but his hand finds itself in a fist like it was born for it and he swings at Paul with all the strength in him.

Paul startles backward but he's too slow; Brian's punch catches him square across the jaw and sends him staggering back with an angry yell, just as Freddie shrieks out, "Brian!" in alarm.

Brian freezes for a moment in pure shock, breathing heavily, then Freddie collides with him from behind, arms around his waist, and shoves him for the door. "Brian, _please_ , let's go!"

Brian stumbles forward, steered by Freddie, and the hangers-on still grouped in the doorway hastily side-step so they can get through the front door.

Paul's yelling something from behind them but it's lost in the sound of the rain, still hammering down, as they both run for the car parked haphazardly in the driveway.

They dive inside and Brian's starting the engine before Freddie's even slammed the door shut, wanting to get away before Freddie can panic and change his mind, try to turn back. The tyres squeal as Brian shoves the car into gear and roughly pulls away, flinging Freddie back in his seat with the force of it, and puts that damn house firmly in the rearview.

He glances at Freddie as they peel out onto the main road and he can't help it; he starts laughing.

"You're crazy," Freddie breathes, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy, darling. I can't believe you just did that."

Brian feels delirious, like he's dreaming. "My hand is fucking _killing_ me," he says, still half-hysterical with laughter.

That does Freddie in as well and he abruptly dissolves into uncontrollable giggles that sound a little too close to sobs but, in light of the whole evening, Brian will take what he can get. It's so, _so_ fucking good to hear Freddie laugh again.

Dawn's just beginning to break by the time they've calmed down to lapse into tired, companionable silence and Brian's gotten them good and lost among the city roads, Freddie starting to list in his seat as he struggles to evade sleep.

"Where do you want to go?" Brian asks softly. "Airport? Hotel?"

Freddie shakes his head. "Anywhere," he replies quietly, blinking over at Brian. "Take me anywhere, darling, just keep me with you."

Brian's eyes sting for a moment with a deep well of emotion and he reaches out to take Freddie's hand, holding tightly.

"I promise," he says, the words weighted with so many years of heartbreak he has to try and undo. "This is it, now. No more leaving."

Freddie smiles, his hand curled small and warm and loose inside Brian's. "I love you," he says, softly, carefully.

Brian takes his eyes off the road for a moment to look at him and finally, _finally_ , say the words Freddie's waited so long to hear.

"I love you, too."

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
